


In His Eyes

by yokomya



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Baseball, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:42:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4474562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yokomya/pseuds/yokomya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything I want is here. The sound of his voice as he murmurs my name and the air from between his lips as he breathes into my ear. The vibrations of his body as he trembles, fingers laced with mine, keeping us both grounded. The beautiful skips of his heartbeat behind his rib cage and the scent of him all over me, the scent of home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In His Eyes

In his eyes, I see everything.

Not because of the color, nothing like that, it isn't so mediocre. His eyes are brown, a plain, simple shade of brown, far from extraordinary. But somehow, in those utterly average brown eyes, I see it all.

It's in the way he looks at me, like I mean something to him, more than what he chooses to say out loud. Which is funny because Stiles isn't afraid of speaking his mind.

It's in the way he looks at others, with either the utmost devotion and loyalty or with overflowing disdain and disgust. How he judges carefully who might cause trouble and who's worth sacrificing himself for. That's Stiles in a nutshell.

Candid, blunt and to the point, wearing his heart on his sleeve while being afraid of his emotions getting the best of him. That's my best friend. The one with eyes that burn like the sun in his fury, glass over like a dark lake in his sorrow, and turn to frigid steel when he's sizing somebody up.

One day, I hope to see more than everything.

I hope he's looking at me when I do.

 

“Scott,” Stiles blurts, jerking me from my daydream.

He hops down into the empty space across the picnic table from me, glancing at the papers I have sprawled out, squinting from the afternoon sun. I make a sound of greeting - not much of a sound so much as a puff of air - and continue to flip through the remainder of my Biology homework, close to blowing up. 

“Yo, Scotty. Earth to werewolf.”

“Hm?"

“Check it out,” he says, ignoring the fact I'm trying to concentrate, and plants his hand down on the table. Reluctantly, I glance away from my notes to find two small, glossy sheets of paper. It takes about three seconds for it to click what they are and I raise a brow.

“Baseball tickets?”

“Hell yeah,” Stiles snorts, “Birthday present from my dad.”

I look at him skeptically and then ease my Biology work away from my face. His smile is telling me a million things, causing little flops in my stomach.

“Oh, crap, dude,” I stutter, gaping, “It’s your- Why didn’t you-”

“No big deal,” Stiles brushes off, “But hey, you can make it up to me by not letting me go to this thing alone.”

The fact that the extra ticket is meant for me sends a whirl of delight through my body. I can already feel a smile creeping up on my face. Stiles returns it just as easily.

His eyes are shining under the sunlight, happy, laughing, excited. The irises are encircled in golden rays that cascade out along the darker shades of brown. It’s _beautiful_.

"You're taking me out on  _your_ birthday?" I ask, acting amused when in reality I'm melting. 

Stiles drums his fingers against my worksheets and lifts his chin.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, buddy."

 

 

The night is chilly for California so Stiles and I grab light hoodies before heading out. On the walk downtown, it’s easy to ignore the cold when your best friend’s laughter keeps you awake with warmth. Stiles is going on and on about the game, filling me in on the teams and players we’re going to see. He’s like a walking encyclopedia for baseball and actually- it’s pretty amazing.

The knowledge pours out of his mouth - not because he's showing off what he knows - but because he loves the sport so much it just happens that way. It’s at that moment I realize how smart Stiles is when he’s dedicated. It’s the same when he studies up on the supernatural, on the crime, on the people in this town we meet. I wish I would have noticed it more, back when he spent so much time and effort learning about werewolves, doing it for my benefit. I barely gave anything back.

We finally reach the baseball stadium and take seats in the middle, immersed in the bustling audience. It isn’t as if Stiles hasn’t been to a game before -you would think that was the case with how off the wall he becomes, madly in love with every little thing about being there- but he never fails to look forward to it. He can’t keep still and he can’t keep quiet but I don’t mind. It’s nice to see him so over the moon about something normal, something that doesn’t involve staying up all night so he can learn how to survive the next day.

The game starts and Stiles is already jittery, watching every movement on the field like a hawk. He touches me every so often, not on purpose really, but it's nice when the touches linger. His hand will flutter to my arm as the catcher winds up and his shoulder bumps with mine when he wants to make sure I know who’s winning. Sometimes, when the crowd gets rowdy, Stiles shakes me from the adrenaline rush and leaves his fingers curled against my arm for a long time after.

I know the game, he’s explained so many times, but I pretend to forget so he can remind me. It's fascinating and hilarious to watch him get flustered and lean close to my ear to tell me, as if he's sharing a precious secret.  _How the hell aren’t you getting this by now, Scotty? Okay, look. . ._

As the batter takes off to first base, Stiles is leaning forward, muttering encouragements, watching the player side step someone from the opposing team, avoid the baseball, and slide into second. Stiles gasps and clutches my arm again, sending a little bolt of electricity up the nerves, straight to my brain.

The next batter hits and makes it to first at the same time the guy on third base runs home. The instant that the scoreboard reflects what happened, Stiles jumps out of his seat, along with half of the crowd, and cheers at the top of his lungs. It isn't a very fast paced game so they might as well set off fireworks when a point is scored. 

Looking up at Stiles, even under the shadow of his cap, I can see euphoria in his eyes. That maybe fireworks _are_ going off for him, that he's not quite down to Earth but is somewhere in the clouds right now. He's entranced by something he cares about so deeply that I'm torn between jealousy and being ecstatic for his sake. Sitting back down, he gives me a quick grin.

It's the kind that says  _I'm happy you're here to share this with me_.

The night goes on, the game plays out, and Stiles becomes quieter. His team isn’t winning anymore because the rival team got a few points above their score. Now it's the other half of the crowd clapping and whistling, rooting for their team. Stiles taps his foot on the bleachers rapidly, anticipation showing through. 

“Their A-game is off but the game is still on,” he mumbles next to me. I don't know if it's meant for me to hear or not.

His eyes are droopy, less full of life, less vibrant. I notice he blinks less, too focused on the dugout, awaiting any turn of events. He doesn’t look at me but I don’t miss the disappointment there. The former drive of adventure dwindling, the bitterness, the loss of interest. It hurts to watch.

The game comes to an end and his team officially loses, setting up a semi frenzy in the stands. Stiles doesn’t speak until we’re out of the stadium. It feels like swimming through sand to get out of the crowd, especially with Stiles so sluggish behind me. I grab his hand without thinking so we don't lose each other and lead us through the people.

He tries to keep up with me now, as if holding his hand woke him up from a daze. I can feel him holding back, loosely, but he does it. It's unnecessary and shouldn't mean anything but it does.

We finally exit into the parking lot and don't say anything. Stiles doesn't look at me so I give a reassuring squeeze and let go.

“Next time,” I try but he doesn't answer. I'm referring to the game but I wonder if that's really the case. Because I really just want to talk about us.  _We can hold hands again next time, if you want._

I should know better. Stiles doesn’t take baseball lightly. I think it’s because he puts so much hope in his team that it's less about them losing and more about them letting him down. Being let down is like a punch in the gut for him.

Stiles doesn't have a lot of faith in others, doesn't give a lot of trust either. I think _this_ is why. He crumbles when he’s disappointed. It's why he doesn’t get his hopes too high, the reason he expects the worst.

Without a word, we go down the sidewalk. Soon enough Stiles talks again, easing into lighthearted chatter, letting go of his former frustration. His hands are pocketed, which sucks because I can't stop thinking about how much I want to hold them. I won't though.

We reach his house and take some of his dad’s whiskey, since his dad isn't home, and find a comfortable spot in the backyard. Seeing Stiles pop open the bottle and take the first sip, looking up into the stars, I want to tell him to put it back. For some reason I can't. I just _can't_. 

Stiles gets more energetic again, like when the night started, now that alcohol is running up and down his system. We talk about a lot of things, things we won't remember later, and some we definitely won't forget. It's times like these, alone from the rest of the world, I truly realize how important he is to me.

“I’m glad you came,” he says suddenly, slur in his tone. I can feel something shift in the atmosphere, like the last hour of idle chatter has vanished. Stiles lays back in the grass and stares up at the sky, arms behind his head. He’s trying to smile but it’s not really there, it’s almost broken.

In his eyes are whiskey and starlight, the moon, sorrow, confusion, peace. It’s a mix of emotions and I can’t discern a single one just right.

“It beats doing homework,” I joke, in an effort to raise his spirit. Stiles blinks and shifts before settling again, like he was attempting to sink into the ground.

“Yeah, it does,” he laughs, but the laughter dies down and down until it’s gone. Like someone sucked it out of his throat. He sniffs and wipes the back of his knuckles over his eyes. “And I know you don’t really care about baseball so it's nice. _You're_ nice.”

That takes me back. There’s no malice to his words, he just sounds tired and defeated. He doesn't seem to entirely comprehend what he's saying, how he's roaming into territory we usually stray from. Even if our friendship is borderline a lot of things.

"Really really nice," Stiles murmurs absently, palms sweeping over the soft lawn. Gently, I bump my knee to his and peer over him.

“So what if I don't care about baseball?" I whisper, "I care about _you_.”

The quiet of the night hushes further as my words carry off into it. I’m almost as shocked as he looks when it's out there. It's as if I can suddenly hear how hard I'm breathing and how little he's not. I nestle my hand close to his on the grass and the only thing stopping me is fear and a whole lot of willpower. Stiles watches me, haziness dissolving.   

“Scott?” he asks slowly, not a question, more like he wants to confirm something. Something I'm not sure if I'm ready to answer. 

I take his skewed cap from his head, because it’s half off anyways, and shove it over my hair. It hides my face and lightens the mood because I'm too nervous and too much of a coward to face what I said.

“The game was awesome even if we didn’t win,” I venture off topic, pulling back so that I was sitting upright in my space again. “I mean, come on, I failed my first Biology test and aced the second. You never know what you're going up against, no matter how much you study - or I guess practice in this case- but next time they'll-”

“Scott?”

I turn my head to find Stiles sitting up, gazing at me. His eyebrows are scrunched up, his body angled towards mine, his lips parted. My heart starts to ache.

There are traces of tears brimming in his eyes and only part of it is from the whiskey. I don’t know about the other part. Whatever's wrong, I can only tell the baseball game was a trigger and that there’s something deeper, something underlying all that sarcasm, under all his defenses. 

His eyes say  _I need you_ and nothing else mattered then.

“Hey,” I breathe out, moving closer, “It’s okay, Stiles.”

And I don’t entirely understand why he’s upset but I hold him anyways, closer and closer until he's clutching onto me, crossing _way_ over the borderline. I don’t think Stiles understands why he’s crying into my jacket, why his tears are soaking into me, or why it _hurts_.

It's a mix of too much alcohol and too little asking for comfort. And because our walls break so much that we have no clue where to start fixing them.

A swarm of feelings burst from within as I hold onto him, rubbing circles over the soft fabric of his hoodie. All I can think is that I want to protect him, to give him a safe place to let out what he’s bottled up. I want to take any ounce of pain he lets me.

 

 

The strobe of the television flickers over Stiles’ eyes, dancing neon lights across the darkness of my room. We’re laying out on my bed mattress, completely absorbed in the video game on the screen.

“It’s almost midnight and you've barely landed any shots on me, dude,” I laugh, smashing more buttons. Stiles snorts beside me, not fuming at all about it.

“It was almost midnight like four hours ago,” he rebukes, “And don't worry, buddy, I'll be kicking your ass pronto now that you've asked nicely.”

“Really?” I hum lightly, shooting his character on the screen, “That’s six head shots in a row."

"Thanks for reminding me, like I can't read the scoreboard that comes up whenever I die."

"You're _trying_ to win, right?" I chuckle, hoping to get him riled up. He rolls his eyes, not taking the bait. He doesn't seem his usual competitive self tonight.

“Cold,” he retorts, relaxing against my pillow, “But I’m just warming up so get ready, bro.”

I notice the bubbling thrill in his eyes now as they dart around the screen. How they're bouncing because he's having fun and because he's actually nervous about catching up. He shouts when an enemy bot gains on him but there's no sign of anger in his eyes, just annoyance. I burst into laughter, about to tease him again but stop short when my character falls over and the respawn countdown pops up. 

“Oh,” I stammer, distracted.

Stiles falls backwards with a victory fist pump, not caring that a bot just took him out since he finally succeeded in head-shotting me. I tumble back in a rush of energy and turn to him, weirdly proud. He’s staring at me too, eyes filling with the desire to keep fighting, not to back down. Even if his chances of beating my score are almost impossible at this point. 

We're both too weary to make a move for the game again because it's getting later, closer to morning. I catch the tired lines shadowing beneath those eyes and the bleariness there. The way they've been trained to withstand staying up, to resist sleep. But watching me, they're bright and wild, like he's using all his energy for my attention. 

“One head shot and a hundred more waiting for you, Scotty.”

The urge washes over me so fast that it's too late to go back when I lean down and kiss him.

It’s a spur of the moment _wow you’re beautiful_ kind of kiss, the kind that seems right at the time and ends up wrong later. But when I kiss him, it doesn’t feel wrong, it feels natural, like something we’ve done over and over already. There's no telling if it’s chemistry or fate or whatever, but in the time frame that I pull back, I don’t regret it.

Stiles is wearing his infamous _I’m completely lost, what is happening_ expression and I would laugh if it weren’t for the heaviness of the situation. My palm is resting on the edge of the pillow, by his head, fingers pushing down into it. And we’re a couple breaths apart, so close I can almost  _feel_  the air flowing in and out of his lungs and the beating of his erratic heart. I start to grow heavier, like I'm about to sink because he says nothing. He doesn’t fly back or move at all except the rising and falling of his chest, the slightest quiver on his lips.

I can’t help but drift to his eyes again, where he’s vulnerable and readable. There’s a splash of lust, a whole lot of questions, and a little bit of dreaming in them that makes my heart flutter, my breathing slower, my eagerness rise. The controller drops suddenly out of his hand, _thumps_ to the floor, but it doesn't rattle us. I realize that mine is set aside, which I must have done earlier.

He looks nervous, unsure almost, but not afraid.

I think about when he was intoxicated, when he was high on the baseball game, how he was so far from reach then, his emotions haywire. It seemed easier to figure him out then, watching how he felt about the world, not trying to capture how he felt about  _me_.

Stiles desperately seeks back, just as mesmerized, just as bewildered. His cheeks flush and his pupils dilate, a fire kindling behind his lashes, before he pushes up off his elbow enough so that we’re kissing again.

He's almost shy about it, the way he moves against me, not exactly knowing where we're headed. I shiver, leaning into Stiles’ body heat, feeling his light touch over my shirt, his hand curling into the cotton. Bravely, I graze my thumb over his jaw and brush our noses another time, pressing closer into him, liking the way he shudders too. kissing Stiles is like tasting his trust and that’s all I need, it's all I want.

He tentatively strokes his fingers over the side of my neck, lingering there, almost like he needs an anchor to keep him steady. I don’t mind because Stiles isn’t used to calling the shots and us doing this is like a shot in the dark, new and unexplored. We’ve always said how much we needed each other without saying it. It’s the only reason this makes any sense at all.

Time goes by but neither of us mention it. We kiss slowly and softly, savoring each other, until a surge of passion hits and feathery touches become hungrier, both of us turning feverish. We make noises in the back of our throats, moans and whines that don’t quite escape, and a warmth spreads across my body as Stiles pushes me into the pillows now, hands over mine.

Everything I want is here. The sound of his voice as he murmurs my name and the air from between his lips as he breathes into my ear. The vibrations of his body as he trembles, fingers laced with mine, keeping us both grounded. The beautiful skips of his heartbeat behind his rib cage and the scent of him all over me, the scent of home.

Because Stiles is my reasoning, the one I can fall back on, the hyperactive kid who grew up with a good head on his shoulders and a soul so drained by stress and loss that it’s hard to believe it’s still thriving.

The way Stiles is pressing marks down my throat, leaving me lightheaded, it brings me back to when I could actually get a buzz. The heat he traces over my skin, branding a fiery trail in his name, it has my mind fuzzing over. The way he's shaking, nuzzling into me like he's too scared to continue, takes me back to moments in the school hallways, when all the people were blurry and all the echoing voices were white noise. Because all I can remember is Stiles by my side every step of the way. With a lifetime worth of smiles.

He's panting against my cheek, eyes shut, breath coming in and out like a whisper or a promise, I'm not sure. I take a moment to catch my breath with him, fingers on the hem of his shirt, barely able to stop moving. The tension in his arms and legs starts to fade and he moves back an inch. Our eyes meet, half lidded, unwavering.

And it’s here, this close to him, that I can see clearly.

He’s asking if this is real, questioning _why me_ , insecurities and doubts washing over. But as I swiftly move my hand from his side to his face, he blooms with adoration, a curiosity blending into belief. It knocks the breath out of me all over again. And I can see that he's just as perceptive as me, just as observing.

We're silent and he moves closer, longing for more, putting us only centimeters apart. Gazing down, he seeks and discovers the answers to what he needed. 

We don’t say what we’re thinking, about how much we want this. We don’t talk about how we should have done this sooner, about where this is going to lead us later. We don't have to.

I take one last look into his lidded eyes, the ones that fall as he kisses me again, and I _know_.

Because in his eyes, I see _more_ than everything. _  
_


End file.
